Rescued by his Christmas Angel. Michelle Douglas
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told me it was hair gel.”
“It was gel, but not hair gel.”
He looked askance at her.
“She didn’t know gel wasn’t gel. She used gel toothpaste.”
He said a word people generally avoided using in front of the first-grade teacher. And then he ran a hand through the thick darkness of his own hair. Her eyes followed that motion helplessly.
“Didn’t you say anything to her about her hair before she left for school?” she managed to choke out.
“Yeah,” he said ruefully, the faintest chink appearing in that armor. “I told her it looked sharp.”
It had looked sharp. Literally. But if she planned to be taken seriously, Morgan knew now was not the time to smile.
“Mr. Hathoway, you cannot send your daughter to school with a shark fin on top of her head and expect she will not be teased!”
“How do I know what’s fashionable in the six-year-old set?” he asked, and a second chink appeared in the armor. A truly bewildered look slipped by the remoteness in his dark eyes. “To be honest, her hair this morning seemed like an improvement on the raised-by-wolves look she was sporting before she finally let me talk her into cutting her hair.”
Remembered hair battles flashed through his eyes, and Morgan found her gaze on those hands. It was too easy to imagine him trying to gentle his strength to deal with his daughter’s unruly hair.
But the last thing Morgan needed to do was couple a feeling of tenderness with the animal pull of his male magnetism!
“It was not an improvement,” she said firmly, snippily, trying desperately to stay on track. “The children were merciless, even after I made it clear I wanted no comments made. The recess monitor told me Cecilia got called Captain Colgate, Toothpaste Princess and Miss Froggy Fluoride.”
“I’ll bet the froggy one was Bradley Campbell’s boy,” he said darkly. “Ace told me he’s called her Miss Froggy before, because of her voice.”
“Her voice is adorable. She’ll outgrow that little croakiness,” Morgan said firmly. “I’ve already spoken to Freddy about teasing her about it.”
Nate glowered, unconvinced.
Morgan pressed on. “To make matters worse, today at lunch break someone noticed her overalls. They said she had stolen them, that they belonged to an older sister and they were missing.”
“Somebody accused Ace of stealing?”
Morgan thought he was going to have problems with the joint in his jaw if he didn’t find a different way to deal with tension.
“Cecilia said she had taken the overalls from the lost-and-found box.”
“But why?” he asked, genuinely baffled.
“When’s the last time you bought her clothes?” Morgan was aware of something gentling in her voice. “Mr. Hathoway, I sent you a note suggesting a shopping trip might be in order.”
“I don’t read your notes.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t need a little fresh-out-of-college snip like you telling me how to raise my daughter. Oh, and I also don’t do shopping.”
“Obviously! And your daughter has suffered as a consequence!”
He glared at her. A lesser woman might have just touched her forelock and bowed out the door.
But blessed—or cursed—with the newfound strength of a woman who was working her way through Bliss and making careful notations in the margins, and who had purchased a sofa in a rather adventurous shade of purple, she plunged on.
“Cecilia told me that’s why she took the overalls from the lost-and-found box…to spare you a shopping trip. She doesn’t have anything that fits properly. She wears the same favorites over and over. She wears hiking boots with skirts, Mr. Hathoway! Haven’t you noticed that?”
He said that word again, and something besides hardness flickered in those eyes again. It was worse than the hardness. Pain so deep it was like a bottomless pool.
“I guess I didn’t notice,” he said, the warrior stance shifting ever so slightly, something defeated in his voice. “Ace could have said something.”
“She seems to think if she asks nothing of you, she’s protecting you in some way.”
The smallest hint of a smile tickled across lips that had the potential to be so sexy they could make a woman’s heart stop.
“She is protecting me in some way. Grocery shopping is tough enough. I have to go out of town for groceries to avoid recipe exchanges with well-meaning neighbors.”
Whom, Morgan was willing to guess, were mostly female. And available. She could easily imagine him being swarmed at a market in a small town where everyone would know his history. Wife killed, nearly two years ago, Christmas Eve car accident. Widower. Single dad.
“The girl’s department is impossible,” he went on grimly. “A sea of pink. Women everywhere. Frills.” He said that word again, softly, with pained remembrance shadowing his eyes. He shook his head. “I don’t do shopping,” he said again, firmly, resolutely.
“I’d be happy to take her shopping.”
It was the type of offer that would have Mary Beth rolling her eyes. It was the type of offer that probably made Morgan’s insanity certifiable. Could she tangle her life with those of the Hathoways without dancing with something very powerful and possibly not tamable?
But whatever brief humanity had touched Nate’s features it was doused as carelessly as he had plunged that red-hot metal into water.
“I don’t do pity, either.”
Good, Morgan congratulated herself. She had done her best. She should leave now, while her dignity was somewhat in tact. Mary Beth would approve if she left without saying another single word.
Naturally, she didn’t.
“It’s not pity. I happen to love shopping. I can’t think of anything I would consider more fun than taking Cecilia on a shopping excursion.”
Chapter Two
I CAN’T THINK of anything I would consider more fun than taking Cecilia on a shopping excursion.
Mary Beth is going to think I’m crazy, Morgan thought.
Plus, standing here in such close proximity to his lips, she could think of one thing that would be quite a bit more fun than taking Cecilia on a shopping excursion. Or maybe two.
“I’ll look after it,” Nate Hathoway said, coolly adding with formal politeness, “thanks for dropping in, Miss McGuire.”
And then he dismissed her, strode back across his workshop and turned his back to her, faced the fire. He was instantly engrossed in whatever he was doing.
Morgan stared at him, but instead of leaving, she marched over to one of the bins just inside the front door. It contained coat hooks, in black wrought iron.
She picked up a pair, loved the substance of them in her hands. In a world where everything was transient, everything was meant to be enjoyed for a short while and then replaced—like her purple sofa—the coat hooks felt as if they were made to last forever.
Not a word a newly independent woman wanted to be thinking of anywhere in the vicinity of Nate Hathoway.
Still, his work with the black iron was incredible, flawless. The metal was so smooth it might have been silk. The curve of the hanger seemed impossibly delicate. How had he wrought this from something as inflexible as iron?
“I’ll trade you,”